Here all eyes were turned on me, and I found it difficult to endure the unfriendly scrutiny with composure. Had I walked into a trap after all, and instead of thanks was I to find myself implicated in this plot and suspected as a rebel?
“Tim Gallagher,” said the magistrate, turning to his honour. “Do you know him, Gorman?”
“I do,” replied Mr Gorman shortly, and evidently uneasy. “His father was once a boatman on my place.”
“Ah, and a smuggler too, wasn’t he? We used to hear of him at Malin sometimes.”
“Likely enough. He was drowned some years ago.”
“And his two sons are rebels?”
“One is by all accounts,” said his honour; “the other is here, and can speak for himself.”
“I am no more a rebel than you,” said I hotly, without waiting to be questioned. “I am a servant of the king. His honour here knows if I ever joined with them.”
“It is true,” said his honour, as I thought rather grudgingly, “this rough-spoken young man was the one who frustrated the attempt on me yesterday. I know of nothing against his loyalty.”
“Yet,” said the presiding magistrate, who had been turning over the leaves of the secretary’s book, “I find Barry Gallagher’s name down here as having taken the oath. How’s that?”